


Tell Me To Stay

by gaialux



Series: Don't Leave Without Saying Goodbye [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been accepted into Stanford. He finally tells Dean while the two of them are holed up in a rainy little town, Dad investigating a simple hunt and burn that Dean opts out of. What follows is Dean's need to decide on his loyalties, and confront just what his job is really about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the samdean-otp minibang. Art by the incredible bt-kady (LJ) and beta read by shaemichelle (LJ). This takes place prior to Sam going to Stanford, but he is indeed 18 in the fic. Extreme amounts of angst and a smattering of schmoop is to be found, as well as references to a mildly (verbally) abusive John Winchester.

 

_fly away from here  
from this dark, cold hotel room,  
and the endlessness that you fear._  
\- angel by sarah mclaughlin.

 

* * *

 

“Dad – he’s not gonna listen, is he?”  
  
“Dunno.”  
  
He’s asked the variant of this question at least two dozen times in the last four dozen minutes. Dean’s answer is never a variant, and Sam never delves further. Just waits another two seconds and asks –  
  
“Dad’s not gonna accept this, is he?”  
  
“Dunno.”  
  
Dean’s leaning against a wall with flaking, yellow, flowery wallpaper, and Sam’s on the bed opposite, a letter open to his left and a piece of paper lying to its side. Dean found out Sam’s been keeping a PO Box three towns over, sneaking out to hitchhike there early every morning for the last two weeks. Waiting for an acceptance letter Dean didn’t even know he applied for.  
  
He should have guessed something was up with the way Sam’s been acting nice lately, not bitching about every. little. thing. Like when Dean uses up all the hot water, or he forces Sam to sleep on the floor “’cause I’ve been hunting longer than you – back’s bound to be thrown out sooner” when they’re in a two bed room.  
  
This is another room just like that, and Sam’s picked the perfect time to send everything to hell. Dad’s due back – Dean throws his eyes to the clock – in an hour, and Sam’s like some dead and stuffed body on the bed scuffing his feet. Dean thinks he’s going for the twelve-year-old puppy dog look that got him the ice-cream and shotgun car rides from Dad, only that was years ago, and it’s no longer going to cut it.  
  
“You gonna get that?”  
  
Sam’s voice cracks through the world and opens it to the sound of a phone ringing. Wordlessly, Dean crosses the room to pick it up.  
  
“Dean. Another hunt. Won’t be back until tomorrow. How are you and Sam?”  
  
“F—fine.” Dean clears his throat and washes it of that stupid, pitiful clog that comes about when Dad doesn’t care. “We’re fine. You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I'm fine. Heading back, just wanted to check in. I'll see you both tomorrow.” Dean’s listening to the beat of dial tone and wonders what that hasn’t become his favourite song. He hears it often enough.  
  
“Dad’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells Sam and throws the phone onto the bedside table. It probably breaks, but Dean’s sick of technology by now.  
  
Sam nods, once, hard. Dean just sighs and slumps to the bed across from his brother, picking at its worn red sheets. How many different sheets has he slept under? And how many more is that number going to reach in his lifetime?  
  
The thought sends a crawl up his spine and the fabric drops from his fingertips. The answer’s higher than every demon in hell and he already knows it. Now he’s just counting down the number Sam’s going to reach. The rate things are going, he’ll give it a generous two.  
  
“Dean...” It’s not high enough to be a question, and it’s not pointed enough to be a statement. Dean looks up at Sam and decides to rule the sentence a statement and wait for something more to come. It never does, and Sam’s eyes are looking away with his too-long hair drooping over his forehead before any more words appear. The “Dean” is left hanging and the namesake feels hollow.  
  
“When do you start?” He couldn’t bite his tongue, couldn’t stop himself. Maybe he just doesn’t care how much he hurts Sam. Doesn’t seem to be a priority right now, and his career contract looks like it just ran out. Never expected it to hurt this much.  
  
“I start in September.” His voice is quiet. “I’ll hunt – want to hunt – with you until then.”  
  
“You want to hunt?” Dean’s definitely not as quiet in wording as his brother. He’s standing and his short, broken nails are digging against his skin.  
  
He wants to punch something, but the only solid item in the area is a lamp and it looks like somebody’s already gone ten rounds with its holey, faded shade. He forces himself to sit back on the bed, and stares at Sam - he wants an answer. He’s getting an answer. “Isn’t that the reason you’re leaving?”  
  
Sam’s fingers play over the knee of his jeans. They’re new and without a tear or blood stain like all their other clothes. Sam must have bought them on one of his late night thumbing trips. Dean wonders what else his brother’s been hiding.  
  
“It’s complicated,” Sam says.  
  
Dean doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “Our  _lives_  are complicated. Witches? Those sons of bitches are complicated. Werewolves? Man, we’ve spent years learning that cycle. You bailing on your family? Seems pretty simple to me.”  
  
Sam looks up and his eyes are shining in the late afternoon light. Dean doesn’t let himself care. “I didn’t make this decision in a day! It took me a long time, Dean.”  
  
He knows it’s not what Sam meant, but pain creeps into his body so bad his chest starts burning. “So you’ve always planned on ditching?”  
  
“You know I didn’t mean that.” His head drops back down and he sniffs.  
  
The silence stretches like a shifter’s skin. All alive and pounding through the room while Dean keeps staring at his brother and wants to say something, or hear something, but nothing ever comes. Just more of the same silence that isn’t awkward, but it is painful. The only thing that soon shatters through is Sam’s choked cough.  
  
Yeah, Dean’s never been good at doing this.  
  
“Hey.” Dean reaches out his foot, kicks softly at Sam’s. “S’okay.”  
  
A shake of the head. “It’s not. I know it’s not.” He takes in a shaky breath, and Dean’s pretty certain now that his brother’s crying. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t apologise if you don’t mean it.” Dean gets up from the bed and shifts to Sam’s side, picking up the letter, ignoring the twinge in his chest and stomach, and reads. “Got a full ride, Sammy. That’s awesome.”  
  
He can see Sam’s eyes through the curtain of stringy hair. “Don’t have to lie to me.”  
  
“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He manages a smile even though it strains his face. He won’t take the time to explain what he means and how his words are truth meets lie meets protection meets job he took on more than two decades ago. He just kicks playfully at Sam’s foot again. “You’re Scooby Doo’s Velma. Whiz kid.”  
  
Sam gives a scoff and Dean’s grateful for the laughter. “Couldn’t have picked something more gender appropriate?”  
  
Dean’s taut smile slackens into a natural grin. “Nup.”  
  
It’s silent again, but this time it’s not as heavy. Dean doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in all the crap. Part of it probably has to do with the phone call, but he doesn’t even let himself think about that. Not like it can ever do anything more than roll around in his mind and leave a bitter taste on his tongue. Sometimes it joins flecks of copper after Dean realises he’s been biting his cheek or tongue. It’s not worth it, really.  
  
“Dean?” This time it’s definitely a question.  
  
Dean shifts. “Yeah?”  
  
“If you tell me not to go, I won’t.”  
  
He says it so quietly Dean’s not sure if it’s just wishful thinking, but Sam looking right at him say otherwise. It hangs, the phrase, and all that humidity comes hurtling back to fill Dean. He can hardly breathe, chest contracting so painfully he’s almost doubling over. So much for trying to be nice.  
  
“Don’t you dare put that on me.” It’s meant to vaguely resemble a threat, but all he manages is the words within painful breaths.  
  
“Say the word.” His voice breaks. “I’ll rip up the letter and never apply again.”  
  
“Why are you doing this?” Dean’s pulled his leg away, the space between them now too close. He moves back, pressing against the worn pillows with their filling torn and lost.  
  
“You think I’ve always wanted to leave you. Not true.” He shakes his head. “If you think that, I’ll stay.”  
  
“Don’t –" Dean squeezes his eyes shut, tries to catch his breath and swallow back anger. “Don’t try to make me the bad guy.”  
  
“That’s the opposite of what I’m trying to do, Dean.”  
  
“Then why do you have to put this on me?”  
  
He can’t even look back at Sam, there’s just too much focus on keeping his breathing steady and stowing away the burning anger and dredging pain. He wants to be the bones of a poltergeist, salted and burned into oblivion.  
  
Only that probably won’t work from this moment onwards, because Sam is going to give up hunting; he’s going to run away. Dean forgets why he moved away in the first place and inches closer to Sam again.  
  
“Just don’t wanna let you down,” Sam murmurs.  
  
“You won’t,” Dean says.  
  
Dean doesn’t know if Sam believes him, and Dean doesn’t know if he believes himself. Not much about tonight is making sense, and the only thing that sinks in is that Sam’s running away. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, maybe not even a month away. But he will.  
  
That’s what makes the whole thing worse. Dean’s left watching his brother and waiting for the time his backseat will be empty and the nearby bed won’t have a shape bunched under the covers.  
  
He decides that Sam is trying to look at him through tinted windows of hair, and Dean can’t think of what to do. He hopes Sam took something from his words. He refuses to be selfish and say something Sam won’t accept, but instead just sits with a stone-set jaw and waits for something to crash start.  
  
It seems to always be their life, keep moving because they don’t have time to sit and angst about that monster who got away, or the fact they don’t have a mom, or how three people died today because Dean was too drunk to pay attention.  
  
Only, this time, nothing comes hurtling down. Instead it’s just Sam saying he’s tired, crossing the floor to get the lights, and crawling under covers on the bed that’s been Dean’s for the past two nights. Dean guesses he doesn’t even want to say a word to get him off the bed, and he knows it’s already started.  
  
Sam’s already gone.  
  


~~~~

  
Dean kicks rocks around the parking lot, a bottle of beer freezing his hand. It's only after he finishes it, too quickly as is becoming habit lately, that he decides two in the morning is a time of sleeping and not wallowing in your own self-pity.  
  
Sam’s still a lump under the covers, kicking out an overgrown leg at the snap of the door’s lock. Dean doesn’t even bother to shower or change and just toes off his shoes before crashing over the covers. He doesn’t sleep, but closed eyes against the pillow is his equivalent these days. Close enough, and he’s not asking for anything more in life. Beggars can’t be choosers, or whatever that cliché is.  
  
He’s got a bed, and a gun, and a brother. Maybe that’s all he’s meant to have. Only now he’s gonna have to find something to fill in the third item on that list. More booze, he decides, rolling over and burying his face in the old pillow that smells like cheap soap and Sam.

  
~~~~

  
The times he doesn’t sleep are the times he thinks. He lets his mind wander just enough for things to make sense, but never enough to let it hurt. Like finding a perfect balance between salt and fire, or that perfect time to run into a building and blow away the creatures inside.  
  
Easier said than done, not that Dean knows how make things sound easy. Sam’s probably pissed at him because he couldn’t say what Sam needed to hear. Doesn’t matter, should know by now that Dean’s one shitty brother.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
He considers feigning sleep, but that just seems like too much effort. He’s exhausted, every muscle heavy and begging for rest. Instead he rolls over and looks at what has to be Sam in the darkness. “What?”  
  
“Just tell me.”  
  
“Sam—"  
  
Dean turns away and stares up at the ceiling, expecting something to come from the darkness. He can understand all the demons, all the ghosts, all the monsters in the closet that go bump in the night. One thing he’ll never understand, no matter how long he stares at the plaster-coated roof, is Sam.  
  
“I’m not going.” Dean turns, and Sam says again, “I’m not going.”  
  
It almost breaks him. One hand clutches his pillow and the other balls into his sheets. Tries to hold on and he can’t even swallow to clear his throat for speaking. “Stop it,” is all he gets out.  
  
Sam shifts and his shadow moves, showing him sitting at the edge of his bed. “Stop what? Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do.”  
  
It’s so pathetic that Dean has to let out a strangled laugh. He doubts Sam even gets to hear it, the sound sinking into his pillow where it will be trapped until they move to their next hunt. Mixing with soap and Sam and the few tears he knows have leaked out, but he’s not ready to admit it yet. Not ready to let himself go. Not now, probably not ever.  
  
He runs both hands under his eyes, rubs them to clear all traces, and sits up. It’s so dark he shouldn’t have bothered, but something about knowing there’s no wetness on his cheeks adds strength. It’s stupid, really, but a lot of what they do is. Just like it’s stupid that iron repel ghosts and Satanists use converted protection symbols. Sometimes stupid works.  
  
“I’ll stay if you want me to.”  
  
“Thought you wanted to sleep.”  
  
“Can’t.”  
  
Dean doesn’t know why he doesn’t just lie back down and face the other wall. All he can blame it on is an overdose of gravity holding his feet to the floor. He stares at Sam through the darkness and tries to figure out where it all went wrong.  
  
He’d say it was coming since Flagstaff, he remembers driving around for three days straight until deciding that was the end. So long family, hello John and Dean for however long they had to save the world. Took him another eleven days for any of those thoughts to disappear, when he found Sam and hugged him so tightly neither of them could breathe for another two weeks. Yeah, makes sense that Flagstaff started it all. Only then Dean has to consider what got that ball rolling in the first place, and everything traces back to a fire once upon a time.  
  
“Tell me to stay.”  
  
It’s the only thing that cracks through the darkness, and that gravity holding Dean down seems to slip away. He’s suddenly weightless, dizzy, and he’s glad the bed’s there because he all but collapses back onto his pillow, turning from his brother to watch that wall.  
  
It just looks like endless darkness from here.

  
~~~~

  
He’d like to say the phone woke him up, but the more likely scenario is he never slept. He rolled in and out of restless nightmares and thoughts that he couldn’t stop. The phone just gives him an excuse to sit up and stop pretending.  
  
“Dean.” No question, no hello, no ‘sorry I might have woken you since it’s five o’clock in the fucking morning’. It’s Dad. Sam sits up, stares at him. Dean wonders if he sleeps anymore. “Looks like this is going to take longer than planned.”  
  
He forgets about his father’s lack of formalities. He presses the phone harder to his ear, swings legs over the side of the bed, blocks out the rest of the world. “What do you mean? Is everything okay?”  
  
“Routine hunt, son. It just led to another suspected spirit a few states over. It shouldn’t take me long – a day to get there, two to get back to the motel.” There’s a pause. “If you want to come help out...”  
  
He’s torn when he doesn’t think he should be. It should be a simple choice. Yessir. Berighttheresir. It’s what Dean’s been taught since before he could hunt, back when he would grip onto the Impala’s windowsill, big-eyed and staring at the figure in the distance that was his father. Or the figure he tried to pretend was his father, for all he knows it was the shadow of a tree and he just needed to hold onto his faith. Sometimes Sam’s in the seat near him, and Dean manages to block the window.  _Just a bit longer, Sammy. Stay a kid._  
  
“Sam's... sick,” he says, before even thinking about it. A weak excuse, and he hears John pause. “s'not anything serious. Just a cold or something, but y'know how he hides it. I gotta watch him.”  
  
“Okay, son,” Dad says, “Like I said, it shouldn't be too rough. I've got the research right here with me. I'll call you tomorrow.” And, just like that, he hangs up.  
  
“Dad coming home?” Sam asks, and he hasn't at all managed to hide the fear in his voice.  
  
Dean wants to tell him that it won't be as bad as he thinks, that can't can't  _stay_ mad. Sam is his son – his  _family –_  and that means more than anything else ever could or will. Instead, all he can manage is, “Nah. The hunt's gonna be longer than he thought.”  
  
Sam visibly relaxes and sinks back into the bed. There's a small smile on his face, it's been missing lately, and that tiny gesture serves to take away at least a little bit of the sinking feeling in Dean's heart and stomach.  
  
“So, what are we gonna do today?” he asks.  
  
“It’s raining,” Sam replies.  
  
Dean looks out the small gap between the thinning motel room curtains. It's splattered with water droplets and Dean can hear the sound of it drumming on the windows now.  
  
“Guess we're stuck inside.”  
  
Dean look back at Sam who nods, yawns, and pushes back the covers. “Gonna take a shower.” He crosses the floor of their small motel room and goes into the bathroom.  
  
Dean hates the rain when they're trapped inside. Hates it more when they're on a hunt and he can't see ten feet in front of himself. Last time it happened he was left clutching blindly for his dad and brother. He found Sam about an hour later with a broken leg and enough blood loss that Dean was questioning hospital – of course Sam refused to go.  
  
He turns on the TV while water drums on the window and roof and comes from the paperthin walls between bathroom and bedroom. It's more entertaining than anything on morning network television anyway. He keeps shifting through the channels and finally settles on the one thing he can stomach (and, yeah, he doesn't altogether hate it – but he's never admitting that to Sam) – Rockford Files reruns. If Sam pitches a bitchfest, he's just gonna have to deal.  
  
The shower shuts off and Sam's walking out of the bathroom soon after. The first thing he says is, “You're a lot like him.”  
  
Dean turns from the box. “Who?” He watches as Sam pulls on shorts, then a shirt, and sits at the edge of the bed before answering.  
  
“Jim Rockford,” he says. Sam shakes his head and sprinkles of water land on Dean's face. They're cold instantly from the overworking A/C.  
  
“How?”  
  
He's not really seeing it, but Dean's gotta admit he's only seen the show a handful of times. Usually during restless pacing in motel rooms while he waits for Dad to come back, the show sounding in the background while he looks out the window, looks at Sam, and just friggin' hopes everything'll be okay.  
  
“String of women, penchant for Mexican food...” Sam trails off.  
  
“Got my personality down to a tee, Sammy.” Dean tries to smile, to laugh, but both get caught somewhere between his chest and throat and they lodge there, dull and painful. The TV goes off soon after, growing stagnant as each second ticks by. He has to do something to break it, to just keep moving forward. “What do you need for college?” He can't look at Sam when he says it.  
  
“You don't hafta—” Sam's bed creaks.  
  
“Books? Money?” Dean clears his throat. “Illegal booze...?”  
  
“Dean, don't—”  
  
Then it's too quiet, even though the rain still thunders. It's picked up, louder, drowning, and somehow making the silence spread. It runs down the small windows in huge droplets, he can see them splattering and pounding from the corner of his eye. From the other, he's watching Sam.  
  
“Pretty much everything we own is shared, thought you might need your own stuff now that you're leaving and all.” He's trying not to sound angry, because he's not. Really. It's just easier to deal with than any other emotion simmering below the surface.  
  
“I... I got a full ride.”  
  
Then it hits.  
  
 _Sam doesn't need him_.

  
~~~~

  
Sam throws a newspaper onto Dean's bed. There's thick red marker circling something in the obituaries. “Might've found us a hunt,” he says.  
  
Dean eyes the paper briefly, then looks at Sam. “So?”  
  
“So,” Sam says, stretching out the word. “I thought you might be bored waiting for Dad.”  
  
He watches Sam cross the room and take a burger from the Arby's bag sitting on the motel room’s plastic blue table. It's still raining steadily and and Dean only left the room today to get food.  
  
Sam wanted to go with him, but Dean also needed the time to think, to figure things out, to train a smile and compose himself. Sam's leaving. He let it sink in while he sat in line at the drive-thru and it still rests as a heavy ball in the pit of his stomach, even after all that training and preparing.  
  
“Thought we were gettin’ you ready for college,” Dean tells him.  
  
Sam stands there with the burger in his hand, seeming frozen or something. Dean just waits for him to say something, because he's having a hard time swallowing.  
  
“You don't have to do anything,” Sam says at last. “I told you that.”  
  
“Yeah...” All that need to argue, it's suddenly gone, washed down with the rain where it rests, solid and heavy, with that ball that grows and grows in his stomach.  
  
He turns back to the TV and ignores Sam.

  
~~~~

  
They don't talk much for the rest of the day.  
  
Dean stays glued to the boob-tube for a longer stretch of time than he ever recalls; he follows the trials and tribulations of Erica Kane and remembers, yet again, why he avoids daytime television in the first place. Sam spends his day – from what Dean can tell with his short and sideways glances – rearranging his bag, pacing, and trying to read a different book within ten second intervals.  
  
“Quit it,” Dean tells him more than once and Sam sends him a look that has a 50-50 chance of being either pissed or completely terrified (Dean hates the latter, makes the lead in his stomach grow), and goes back to doing a whole lotta nothing.  
  
He calls it a night early on, but with the help of the storm it's already bordering on dark and Sam won't question Dean for going to take a shower, throwing on old sweats, and getting under the covers at only nine. Won't  _question_ , but he does give Dean a  _look_ like seems to be his trademark form of communication lately and Dean mutters “bitch” under his breath before rolling over to look at his new favourite scenery of the wall.  
  
Dean must doze up at some point because when he becomes aware of everything again, it's Sam's deep, even breathing that he notices first.  
  
He's been noticing that first for a long time.  
  
It's the sound that tells him everything's safe in the world, that Dean doesn't have to worry about Sam being injured on some hunt, or that he’s run away again and could be captured or hurt, or --  
  
Dean rolls over, away from the wall, and kicks tangled blankets out from under his legs and feet. Sam's asleep, just like he thought, facing Dean with his eyes squeezed tight like he's not at all comfortable or content, not even in sleep. No respite anywhere.  
  
Dean managed to fit in, he managed to  _embrace_ hunting, so why can't Sam? Yeah, sometimes it hurt like hell, but it was  _family_. That's all the really matters.  
  
Dean doesn't know why exactly he gets out of bed and crosses the half-pace distance over to Sam's, only that he does it. He gets into bed with Sam, pushes against his brother's calf with his bare toes, and Sam awakes with deer-caught-in-headlight eyes and an immediate, “What the fuck?”  
  
“Shh,” Dean responds.  
  
Sam spreads the space further between them, his body teetering dangerously close to falling off the bed. Dean sighs and starts trying to figure out why the fuck he came over here in the first place.  
  
“Listen,” he says eventually, his voice too quiet. “I'm not gonna force you to stay here.”  
  
“Already told you I'd stay here if you wanted me to.” Sam's even quieter, though maybe that's just because of the distance.  
  
“Damn it, Sam.” Dean moves closer, hardly aware of it until the bed squeaks and Sam takes in a harsh breath. “Stop saying that.”  
  
“But it's true.” He sounds so broken and pathetic that Dean wants to push him off the bed.  
  
Instead he moves even closer, until he can hear Sam breathing and can make out his face, even in the dark. Sam shifts, seems to move toward him, and Dean can  _feel_ his breath now, too warm and coming too fast.  
  
He wants to close his eyes and pretend. Pretend they're back someplace before Sam said he's going away, back to being kids when they'd lie on these beds that felt so much bigger than they do right now. Back when Dean could protect Sam. When Dean could do his  _job_.  
  
“I'm not gonna make you stay,” Dean repeats. “Not if you don't wanna.”  
  
Sam takes in a shaky breath. Dean doesn't want to push him away anymore, he wants to pull him closer and say, “Yes. Please, please -- just stay.” But he doesn't. God, he's never wanted anything more in his whole damn life, but he keeps his fucking mouth shut.  
  
“What if  _I_ want to?” The words merge together into one sound, but Dean hears them all.  
  
“Then you wouldn't have applied.”  
  
Sam stays silent, until he breathes in through his nose and the noise shakes.  
  
“Are you  _crying_?” Dean tries to find Sam's eyes in the dark, but it's impossible.  
  
“No.” His voice totally betrays that.  
  
“Oh, jeez, Sammy—” Dean reaches out for his silhouette in the blackness and grips Sam's shoulder. “Stop doin' this.”  
  
“Doing what?” He takes in another breath like he's trying to keep himself steady, then lets it out in a woosh of cold air that hits Dean's face and neck. It makes his shiver.  
  
“Your guilt-trip, emo thing. Just  _stop it_ , okay?”  
  
“Shut up, Dean.” Now he sounds determined, and he rips Dean's hands from his shoulder. “Go back to bed.”  
  
“Why?” He tries to bite back the word but it's too late. Instead he just reaches out and grips Sam's shoulder again. Harder this time. His feet move and touch against Sam's calf again. It makes Sam jump, but Dean stays completely still.  
  
“Used to share a bed,” he says. “Used to always  _be_   _together_.”  
  
“And you think  _I'm_ the one trying to guilt-trip.”  
  
Dean laughs, cold and bitter. His foot falls away from Sam's cold skin. “If you want out of this family, then get going. Run away. Just like you always do.”  
  
Sam freezes. Then, voice lethal, he says, “I'm leaving.”

  
~~~~

  
“Why do I have to tell you to stick around?”  
  
Dean asks this the next morning, after the sun has hit him through the blinds. It completely avoids Sam’s bed, and Dean remembers why he chose it as his in the first place.  
  
“Told you to leave me alone,” Sam says, rolling his head to the side so Dean can’t see his face.  
  
Dean props himself up on one elbow, picking at the bedsheets. “That was last night. Let’s start fresh, okay?”  
  
Sam says nothing.  
  
“Sammy, c’mon, man.” Dean smiles and reaches across the bed, close enough to brush his fingertips over Sam’s back.  
  
Sam slowly rolls over and glares at Dean. “What do you want exactly?”  
  
It startles Dean, how angry Sam’s eyes look. How angry, annoyed,  _hurt_  even, and that’s the last thing Dean wanted to cause. But he’s been doing a bang up job on that these last couple of days.  
  
“I want to know why I’m the one who has to tell you to keep your ass here.” He smiles again, making sure Sam sees it.  
  
“Drop the act,” Sam says.  
  
“Answer the question.” Dean doesn’t lose his smile. He’s getting his answer, one way or another.  
  
“Don’t you think it might be good for you, too?” Sam asks instead.  
  
Dean sits up further, interest piqued. Sam just looks distant.  
  
“I mean…” Sam continues, pausing, and Dean can hear the soft click in his throat as he swallows. “My whole life, you’ve had to watch out for me. Don’t you want, I dunno, a break? I mean, the pay rate’s pretty shit, and I know I’m a pain in the ass.”  
  
He should probably take the joke from it, he should probably laugh and smile and tell Sam to get up. He should probably live in denial again and spend that day looking for a hunt, pretending that in a few months Sam’s not gonna be around. Only he can’t do that anymore.  
  
“It’s my job,” he says. He lets his elbow fall and drops his head back onto the pillow.  
  
“It’s a shitty job,” Sam tells him.  
  
“Unh-uh.”  
  
Sam scoffs. “What part of looking after your eighteen-year-old, pain in the ass little brother  _isn’t_ complete and utter torture?”  
  
“All of it.”  
  
“Dean…”  
  
What he said is true, one-hundred-percent true. It’s the most honest Dean’s been in a long time, maybe ever.  
  
“Go to college if you wanna go to college,” Dean says. “But not because you think it’s good for  _me_. That’s so fucking stupid.”  
  
“So you want me to stay?” His voice sounds flat.  
  
Dean sits up again, swinging his legs over the bed and rubbing a hand over his face. “I just want you to know that you’re not a  _burden_. Far from it, Sammy.” Now he’s said too much, so he covers his eyes with his hands, pressing the palms in until colourful spots dance through the blackness.  
  
“What d’you mean?”  
  
Dean can hear the bed squeak and can feel Sam, closer.  
  
“Just forget about it.” He snaps up his face and stands, walking toward the closest-sized bathroom. He’ll take a shower and forget all about this.  
  
Sam gets up and follows him. “No, no, no, you can’t say that and then just expect me to  _drop it_.”  
  
“Sure I can.” And he slams the door closed behind him.

  
~~~~

  
His cell phone’s ringing when he comes back through the door again. Sam’s fallen back asleep, the sunlight finally hitting him, bathing his arms in a faint yellow. Dean grabs for his phone quickly, but Sam’s only stirred the the time he says, “Hello?”  
  
“Dean.” It’s Dad. “Hunt’s over, son. Spirit’s salted and burned. I’m heading back now, should see the two of you by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.”  
  
“Good, thats good.” Because it is. Mostly. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Dean believes him. He sounds contented, even  _happy_ , at least more than he did the last time he called. “Is Sam okay?”  
  
“Yeah, uh, yeah, he’s fine.” Sam’s sick. Right. He forgot the lie. “Some twenty-four-hour thing or somethin’. He spent yesterday sleepin’ it off.”  
  
“Good job looking after him,” John says. “I’ll see you boys soon.”  
  
“See ya.”  
  
Dean hangs up before Dad this time, putting the phone back onto his nightstand. He turns to Sam who yawns wide and asks, “S’that Dad?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s coming back tomorrow.”  
  
Sam stops mid-yawn, and it’s like his jaw locks. His eyes bulge and it might be funny if he didn’t look so fucking terrified.  
  
“I’m gonna have to tell him.”  
  
And he’s that lost little kid again. The one Dean ruined Christmas for - ruined  _life_ for - by telling him the truth. Dean never wanted him to know, he wanted Sam to be safe forever, to be a  _normal kid_ forever. Maybe if he never said anything Sam would still be in the dark. Maybe they could still be playing happy family.  
  
“It’ll be okay,” Dean says, even though it won’t be. “We’ll get him in a good mood, give him a few beers, and tell him how much money you can make for ammo...what’cha gonna study anyway?”  
  
“Uh…” Sam clears his throat. He still looks scared, but Dean thinks, maybe, there’s a small spark in his eyes again. “Law - pre-law.”  
  
The smile he puts on is strained, and he’s pretty certain Sam knows it, but there’s nothing left in Dean to change that. “Awesome. You can bail me outta hunts gone wrong.”  
  
Sam’s face drops and he gets up from to bed to walk in the direction of the bathroom, like it’s becoming a place of escape for both of them lately. He slams the door shut behind him, and Dean flinches.

  
~~~~

  
He leaves while Sam’s still in the shower, scribbling down a note of ‘be back later’. He doesn’t tell him where he’s going, because Sam doesn’t need to know.  
  
Because Sam’s been keeping his own secrets.

  
~~~~

  
“‘m fine,” he tells the guy on the other side of the pool table, complete with a put-on stumble. He’s down two-hundred, and slaps another onto the table.  
  
“You sure about this, kid?” The guy asks, but he’s smirking and knows Dean will keep his wager on. He’s been doing it for the last hour, and losing each and every time.  
  
“Make it five hundred.” That’ll be the end of the money he brought with him, but he has no intention of losing it.  
  
The man’s eyes widen and he sizes up Dean. Dean stumbles again, just as deliberate, and that seems to convince him.  
  
“You’re on.”

  
~~~~

  
Dean wasn’t drunk when he went to the bar, but he’s probably lucky to be walking rather than driving right about now. He’s managed to make a grand tonight. Best...ever. If Dad knew how much he put up to lose he’d throw a fit, but this is  _Dean’s_ money, saved up over months of darts, poker, and pool. Dad doesn’t need to know.  
  
It’s not a far walk back to the motel, and Dean’s surprised that Sam didn’t bother looking for him, but tries not to dwell on that. He’s got a thousand bucks in his pocket, and that’s a good thing, right?  
  
“Sam!” Dean beats his fist against the door harder than is strictly necessary.  
  
When it opens, Dean knows something’s wrong. Sam’s eyes are wide and he’s practically shaking, his knuckles clenching into the side of the door.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean hesitates. “Sammy, you okay?”  
  
“Did you know?”  
  
Dean freezes and then, slowly, looks up at Sam. His brother moves his arm away and Dean can see into the room. Dad’s right there, sitting at the edge of one of their beds. His face is pulled in a harsh line, unreadable, but translatable to angry. Dean walks toward his father, just a little.  
  
“Did you know?” Dad repeats, his voice rising.  
  
“I --” Dean’s lost for words and turns back to Sam. “You told him?”  
  
Sam nods, silently, and looks away. So it’s up to Dean to work at this mess, and he’s not sure if he can.  
  
“Dad, listen --”  
  
“No,  _you_ listen.” Dad stands and walks over to Dean. Too close, and Dean tries to take a step back, but the wall’s right there. “You tell me why you encouraged your brother to bail on this family.”  
  
Anger grows, fast and hard, because  _how dare_ Dad think he’d want Sam to leave? He was the one who looked after Sam! He’s been the one holed up in this fucking cardboard-box sized motel room with him for the last three days. He’s been the one trapped in this life, travelling across the entire United States of America, He’s the one that was forced to learn nothing more than straight-shooting and lore. If anyone’s actions have encouraged Sam to pack up and get the fuck outta dodge, then it’s Dad’s.  
  
Dean knows all of that, thinks all of that, let’s all of that simmer just at the surface, but when it comes to talking all he can do is stammer out, “I—I didn’t.”  
  
“Why should I believe that? You tell me your brother’s sick - get me rushing back here to see him, half-ass that spirit job up in Phoenix! - and then I find out... _this_?”  
  
Dean stumbles then, falling closer to Sam, and he keeps telling himself it’s only from the alcohol. Not from being scared, not from anything like that. He reaches out a hand for the doorframe to steady himself.  
  
“Do you want out of this family?”  
  
Dean knows that question isn’t for him, but he finds himself searching for an answer. An answer that’ll either help him make sense of everything, or at least one that’ll protect Sam. He’s drawing a blank, but he opens his mouth and grapples for something, anything.  
  
Dad cuts him off before he even gets out a syllable. “ _Sam_. Do. You. Want. Out?” And every word, it’s punctured with a pause. Dean would think it’s to make them feel small, stupid, but there’s too much raw anger in his father’s tone to really believe that.  
  
Dean turns back to look up at Sam, still searching for those words that will somehow make everything okay again. That’s what he should have been spending his time figuring out, not lying in bed and contemplating the fucking universe.  
  
“Get out, Sam.”  
  
Dean’s head whips back around with the words, throat dry, and any hope of saying something is gone. He hates himself for that. There’s a pause on Sam’s part, too, and what it means hits Dean too late.  
  
 _Sam thinks he’s choosing Dad._  
  
Sam brushes past him, still silent, and past Dad. He’s at his bed, backpack by his side, and shoving in whatever clothes come in contact with his hand. He reaches for the gun kept on the nightstand and Dean sees him hesitate before swiping his hand away, leaving the metal to glitter in the fading light.  
  
He’s back at Dad, shoulders squared and legs braced. Dean’s never noticed just how tall Sam is before. “You want me gone?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Then I’m gone. And I’m not coming back. I’m _never_ coming back.”  
  
He turns toward the door, his eyes sliding over Dean’s. And that look, the look that says  _hurt_ and  _angry_ and  _terrified_ all in one is pointed straight at Dean. It makes Dean want to double over and throw up.


	2. Chapter 2

When the door closes, Dad says nothing. When the clock clicks over from 8:48 to 8:49, Dad says nothing. When the rain starts up again, Dad says nothing.  
  
The only sound is that never-ending rain and Dean’s breathing. It’s hard and fast and borderline-choked, but he can’t stop it. Just like he couldn’t talk when he needed to, he can’t stop his entire chest from burning right now.  
  
His fingers grip into the doorframe, feeling the old wood chipping away under his nails. Trying to get some grip on this place, on the  _world_ , because he’s got no plan and Dean  _always_ has a plan. You didn’t hunt without one, and family was supposed to be hunting.  
  
 _No._  
  
He has no idea -  _no idea_ \- where that thought comes from. Only that it gets his breath back on track and lets him block out Dad.  
  
 _No. Not hunting -_ family _. Look after Sammy._  
  
They’re Dad’s words, but they’re his thoughts. The things he always thought were kept forefront of the mind, but got lost somewhere between the salting and burning. Now they’re back where they should be, and Dean’s determined to make it all right again.  
  
He repeats Sam’s actions, brushing past his father and going over to the bed, but instead of packing for a life on his own, Dean just grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. He turns to face John.  
  
His lost voice has finally come back, and he just says, simply, “I’m gonna bring back my brother.”  
  
::  
  
He’s got the goal, but no idea how to put it into practice. As soon as he walked out of the room,, it was like Dad was somehow manipulating the rain, making it fall faster and harder, in sleets over the tiny patio roof above him and it makes the parking lot almost impossible to see.  
  
Making it to the impala is mostly done by feel, his hands sliding over her sleek, wet body. There’s comfort in her touch. Dean unlocks the driver’s side door and gets inside, shutting it again quickly so her interior is only sprinkled with a few stray drops of water and whatever Dean’s brought in with him on his jacket and jeans.  
  
Then he’s back at square one, with Sam gone and no idea what direction to start looking. But he starts up the impala, because things always make more sense on the road, and backs out of the parking lot. Dad’ll chew him out when he comes back, he’s practically stealing the car, but Dean pushes that away as he heads out onto the highway.  
  
The only place that strikes him as being maybe -  _maybe_  - where Sam would find solitude is the library. A big part of Dean wants to think Sam will just be brooding over  _Lord of the Rings_ or something, ready to return after he thinks the shitstorm’s over, just like he did when he was fourteen and blew up at Dad for his choice of high schools. But this time...this time things seem different.  
  
Dean knows it’s his fault. He should’ve stayed at the motel and been the one to talk to Dad. At the very least he should’ve stood up to him, told him that Sam’s a grown fucking man and can make his own decisions, told him that hunting and family don’t need to the the same thing, and that the former doesn’t have to be front and centre of every little thing they do.  
  
Should've, but didn’t. And Dad wouldn’t have paid attention, he wouldn’t have cared.  
  
The library isn’t that far away, and Dean keeps his eyes peeled as he crawls down the road, ignoring the car horns that blare or the drivers that swerve around him. Usually he’d be right there with them, but not today. Not today.  
  
He pulls up in front of the town’s tiny library, running through rain that’s refused to slow even a little. Once inside he scans the room - which is the entire, tiny library - and feels his heart sink right down into the floor. Sam’s not here.  
  
He still goes to the counter, and describes Sam to the bespectacled woman standing there with a series of hand gestures, reaching up high, standing on tiptoes. She shakes her head and offers him a library card. He walks out with his shoulders bunched up, but it’s not really to protect against the rain.  
  
It’s only when he’s got a hand wrapped around the impala’s handle that his brain starts ticking over again, starts thinking with some form of logic. A motel, if he’s not at the library he’s probably gone and found a motel. Dean sprints back into the building, demands the local phonebook, and taps his fingers impatiently on the plastic countertop while the librarian goes to fetch it.  
  
He ignores her yells when he goes back to the car with the book.  
  
::  
  
Sam’s not in any of them.  
  
Dean checked every motel in the district, under every name they’ve ever used. Dean’s listed every 70s musician he can think of, and that’s a whole lot of names. When it came to the end of the bunch, he’s close to picking all the fucking locks of all the fucking rooms.  
  
Sam couldn’t have gone that far, not on foot. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he starts considering other options. First, it’s Sam dead somewhere, hit by a car and hidden by the rain. That’s too extreme, he can’t dwell on that. Sam could’ve been kidnapped - hitch-hiking and picked up by some backwards person, tortured right now while Dean sits in his car and does nothing.  
  
Then his mind tries to offer more practical solutions. It sticks on the hitch-hiking one, and Dean starts to consider that maybe his brother is already on his way to Stanford, already on his way to sunny California and his future.  
  
Dean needs to find a phone.  
  
He calls the school, demands to know all the information they have on Sam Winchester.  
  
“We cannot release information on our students,” the receptionist tells him.  
  
“I’m his brother!” Dean yells over the line. “This is important!”  
  
He’s left with a dead line and the realisation that he should’ve gone with the FBI or police rouse. He considers calling back, but there’s no point. Even if Sam is on his way, it’s a long, long drive to get to the state. Dean was just holding onto a thin thread, and it’s already snapped.  
  
He snaps with it.  
  
There has to be something in the impala that tells him where Sam went. Something,  _anything_. He digs under the seats, tears open the glovebox, and rummages around the backseat.  
  
There’s bullets and pocket knives, fast food wrappers and gas station receipts, over two dozen fake IDs with just as many credit cards to match them. Nothing... _nothing_. He considers where the fuck he’s gonna go next, because he’s not going back to Dad. He’s not going back to that motel room alone.  
  
He’s bringing Sam back, it doesn’t matter what it takes.  
  
There’s also three old, yellowing TV guides probably from the nineties, dredged up from under the backseat. When Sam was about ten he started collecting them for reasons God only knows. Dean stares at them, keeps staring at them.  
  
And maybe, just maybe…  
  
::  
  
“I’m looking for my brother, Jim Rockford. He shoulda booked in a couple’a hours ago?”  
  
Dean’s panting by the time he gets to the reception desk of Ashgate Motel, located all the way at the other side of town. He’s run in and out of another seven, but who the fuck knew a small town could have so many places of accommodation?  
  
“Room four.”  
  
When he says it, Dean freezes. He wasn’t expecting any response that wasn’t along the lines of “no” or “we can’t give you that type of information”. He sucks in a breath, so loud it fills the room, and then he’s practically leaping back out the door and into the rain that’s somehow heavier than before.  
  
He goes the wrong way first, finding room twenty four. Spins on his heel and runs back in the opposite direction, through the rain that pounds heavy on his head.  
  
The number four has never been so important to him before.  _No_ numbers have really been all that important to him before. But now he’s staring at the brass shape hanging on the the wooden door while rain falls from his hair and runs into his eyes, and it looks like the most important thing in the world.  
  
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Bang on the door and yell out Sam? Knock quietly and hope his brother thinks it’s the maid? Announce he’s FBI? Pick the lock? Break down the door? All these options roll around his mind while he stands there, looking at the number four, and shivering from the weather.  
  
He eventually does a combination of two.  
  
“Sam?” Dean says softly, tapping on the door. “Sammy, you in there?”  
  
There’s no response and a lump rises in Dean’s throat.  
  
“Sam?” Louder this time. “Sam, if you’re in there —”  
  
He hears the sound of the chain being dragged and then the handle twists. He doesn’t do so much as take a step back when the door opens and Sam’s standing there, looking just like Sam.  
  
“Oh, thank God,” he finds himself saying. Relief washes over him and he forgets all about the rain, all about Dad, all about everything except for the fact that Sam is here and he’s okay. He hasn’t gone anywhere.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sam asks, like it’s actually worthy of questioning.  
  
“I came to find you.” He has to practically yell to get himself heard over the rain.  
  
“Why?”  
  
The wind picks up and howls through the building, striking right through Dean’s jacket and shirt layers. He wraps his arms around himself and looks at Sam.  
  
“To tell you that you don’t have to leave. You and Dad fight all the time, it doesn’t mean anything. We’ll go back, everything’ll be fine.” He swallows. “You can leave for Stanford in a few months - just like you planned.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, the wind whipping his hair so Dean can’t see his eyes. “I called ‘em, asked about early accommodation. I...I leave tomorrow, Dean. You didn’t need to come here.”  
  
And that...Dean grips his hands tighter around his arms, digging through the material until he feels the pinch on skin. He’s shivering and he can’t stop, soaked by the water and freezing from the inside out.  
  
Sam brushes the hair back from his face. Dean sees his chest heave, and decides he’s sighing. “Come on.” He pushes the door open halfway. “Hurry up, it’s cold.”  
  
He follows Sam inside, because there’s no reason not to. Dean shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall with a heavy thump onto the stained carpet. This motel looks in worse shape than the other, but that makes sense, he knows Sam has hardly any money. That’s when he remembers the bar and digs into his jean’s pocket, hoping the notes haven’t been ruined by the rain or swept away in the wind.  
  
There’s an internal sigh when his fingers close around the dry and intact bundle, pulling out the thousand bucks and holding it out to Sam. “Take it.”  
  
“Where’d you get that?”  
  
He shrugs. “Hustling pool. It’s not charity - you need money for school. Take it.”  
  
Sam shakes his head and walks around Dean, moving to the battered table and chairs in the centre of the room. He grips onto one, and Dean watches his knuckles turn white from the pressure.  
  
“I’m leaving, Dean.” He looks up and his eyes are harsh. “You coming here isn’t gonna stop me.”  
  
“Not trying to, Sammy.” He takes a few steps closer, cautious. “Just want you to come back to the motel until your semester starts. Don’t go away angry, Sam. You’ll regret it.”  
  
“And how the  _fuck_ do you know what I’m gonna regret?”  
  
The chair is sent flying into the table and Sam paces while Dean just stands there, watching him, back to not knowing what to say. He decides it’s better to just stay silent, to wait for Sam to say something, because Sam’s right - Dean doesn’t know. He wishes like hell he did, but he doesn’t.  
  
“I regret not having a normal life! I regret missing out on things I  _shoulda_ had!” He’s yelling, more pissed than Dean’s ever seen. “That’s not happening this time! I’m not gonna be a  _freak_ anymore!”  
  
Dean stays silent, swallowing down the lump in his throat over and over again. He tried, he tried so hard to let Sam have that childhood.  
  
When Sam eventually calms, at least a little, he sits on the edge of the motel’s one bed and buries his head in his hands. Dean takes more cautious steps closer until he drops down, as far from Sam as he can be while still being on the bed.  
  
Sam sucks in a shaking breath. “I dunno know what to do, Dean.”  
  
In those words, he’s small again in Dean’s eyes. He’s that lost kid with no belief in Santa, the one who knows nothing will ever be the same again and he won’t be able to come back from it. Dean finds himself shuffling closer on the bed, until their legs are touching and Sam moves his hands away from his face.  
  
Dean’s found his voice. “You’re gonna go to school. You’re gonna become some hot-shot lawyer. And, most of all, you’re gonna be  _normal_.”  
  
Sam looks at him,  _really_ looks at him, like Dean’s holding all the answers to the world in the palm of his hands and Sam  _needs_ them. Needs them so badly.  
  
“You’re gonna be  _normal_ , Sam,” he repeats.  
  
“It’s too late for that, I know it is.” Sam looks away, over at the whitewashed wall. “I just…I want it so bad.” He looks back at Dean and his eyes are shining.  
  
“I know.” There’s nothing else he can think of to say. “I know.”  
  
“But I never intended to bail on you and Dad,” he continues and coughs out a laugh. “Guess I fucked up on that, Dad’s not gonna welcome me back anytime soon.”  
  
“Don’t be so sure of that. You guys have had some prize fights before, it never lasts long.”  
  
“He’s never told me to leave the house before.”  
  
Dean reaches down and squeezes Sam’s thigh briefly. “We’ll work it out.”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam doesn’t sound at all convinced.  
  
The rain pounds onto the roof, the same as it’s been doing all week. It’s like it was warning Dean about what was gonna happen, that all of life was about to go to shit. He hates the rain. He hates a lot of things right now.  
  
Just about the only thing he doesn’t hate is Sam.  
  
He doesn’t hate his little brother who isn’t so little anymore, confused in a way Dean could never understand. Life was always less complex for Dean; he hunted and he stuck by his family. Everything came down to those two simple points, and he very rarely questioned them. That’s one point in life the two of them had always different. Sam’s so close, but Dean’s never felt further away from him. Like there’s something he needs to  _get_ , but it’s just out of reach.  
  
“I’m not going back without you,” Dean says instead. “So you better pack your ass into gear or book this room out for the rest of my life.”  
  
“Credit card’s in my wallet.” The laugh he gives after saying that sounds more like a gasp for air.  
  
“You’re sleeping on the floor,” Dean tells him. His heart clenches behind his ribs.  
  
::  
  
 _He_ ends up on the floor, with Sam’s jacket bundled under his head and a scratchy woolen blanket courtesy of the motel thrown over his bare chest. The rain still hasn’t done so much as slow, and it’s irritating Dean more and more as the seconds tick by.  
  
Looking over, he sees Sam, his chest rising and falling, slow enough to let Dean know that he’s asleep. He’s leaving his family tomorrow, and he’s managing to sleep. That’s another thing Dean will never understand.  
  
“Sam?” He  _knows_ Sam’s asleep, but has to ask anyway. “Sammy, you awake?”  
  
No response. Obviously.  
  
Like the other night, in the other room, Dean finds himself shoving away the blanket and padding across the carpet with silent steps. He doesn’t say his brother’s name again, he just carefully lifts back the covers and gets into the bed with him.  
  
He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. All he knows is that he’s gotta stop Sam from leaving tomorrow, gotta find a way, gotta have more time…  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Sam doesn’t awaken so violently this time, instead his voice just sounds thick with sleep. He rolls over and they lock eyes. Things seem to fall into place, and Dean has no idea if that’s a good thing or not.  
  
“I didn’t choose choose Dad over you,” Dean says softly.  
  
Something flickers over Sam’s face, but it’s too dark for Dean to be able to read. “Right.”  
  
So he was right. He knew it. That’s all Sam sees him for now, as the guy who put him second. If it were anyone else it might be pathetic, but Dean practically raised his brother and they’re all they’ve ever had. He can’t say he blames Sam for running away now. But it still hurts.  
  
“I didn’t, Sam, I’d never do that.” He just has to convince him, that’s all. That’s the most important thing now. “You gotta believe me.”  
  
There’s a slow nod on Sam’s part, but Sam doesn’t believe him. Dean’s afraid he might never believe him, and there’s no way around that.  
  
“Just come back with me.” And if he’s pleading, he’s beyond caring.  
  
“I’m going tomorrow.” Sam’s still staring into him. “I gave you the chance... and I’m not trying to be a dick or make you out to be the bad guy, but it’s too late, Dean - I’m going to college.”  
  
“I  _want_ you to go to college.” Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s not, but none of that seems to matter much right now. At the end of the day, after all of this shit, Dean just wants to see Sam happy. If this is the way it has to be, he’ll have to accept it. No matter how much everything inside screams otherwise.  
  
After he says that, Sam stops staring at him so harshly. It’s silence inside and rain outside again, and Dean’s starting to wonder when the fuck that’s gonna give up. He’s also wondering just how much closer he can get to Sam before Sam pushes him away again.  
  
Mostly he’s wondering why the fuck he’s wondering all that in the first place.  
  
“You’re not breaking the family, don’t worry about that.” That should be a lie, but he’s more certain of it than wanting Sam to leave. The kid deserves normal.  
  
Sam gives him a little smile then, just the corner of his lips curling up, but it’s enough. For now it’s enough. Enough to make Dean return it, enough to make Dean think he’s finally getting through to Sammy and maybe  _(maybe, please, maybe)_ he’ll re-think leaving so early.  
  
“I’ll miss you, though.”  
  
“You can come with me.” That’s the first time in this whole night that Sam’s voice has actually broken.  
  
Dean wishes he didn’t say that. “Sam…”  
  
He has no idea how to explain how, no idea how to tell him that he wants to go with him so fucking badly, but he can’t. He can’t leave Dad, not because he cares about him more, or because he puts him first, but just...because. Because Sam can cope in that outside world, because Sam can have a chance at normal.  
  
“I know.”  
  
It’s like they’re back in those non-stop, constant chain of motel room after motel room, locked inside because Dad demanded Dean never let Sam out of his sight. It was the same on those first few hunts, Dean in charge of watching Sam. Dean thinks making him stay should be part of his job.  
  
Only he’s decided he’s not going to do that anymore.  
  
“Go, Sammy. Leave tomorrow. Get as far away as you can from here, okay?” It’s meant to sound at least a little like an order, but he’s pretty sure his tone’s way off mark. “Just…”  
  
“What, Dean?”  
  
Dean bites down on his lip. He needs to get out of this bed, out of this room, out of this fucking  _state_. He tries to move and cross at least one of those things off the list, but Sam’s hand grips on his wrist.  
  
“What?” Sam’s voice is hard, but Dean can’t tell if it’s all just an act. Either way, he refuses to turn back and face him. “What do you want?”  
  
That’s the million dollar question. The one he’s been trying to understand for a long, long time.  
  
“Nothing,” he gets out, and it’s the least convincing lie he’s ever told.  
  
Sam pulls harder at his wrist, until Dean’s choice is to let his bones be broken or to turn and face his brother. He’s not sure he made the right decision when he sees just how close Sam is to him.  
  
“Just…”  
  
And, God, this shouldn’t be happening, these shouldn’t be his thoughts, but nothing is working anymore, and Sam’s  _leaving_ , and he just...just...he leans in and his lips crush against Sam’s in the single most ungraceful kiss he’s ever given.  
  
That doesn’t mean it’s not perfect.  
  
Sam makes some kind of startled noise against his mouth and, yeah,  _shit_ , he’s kissing his  _brother_ right now, isn’t he? Dean tears himself away and Sam’s staring at him, wide-eyed..and... _oh fuck, oh shit_...Dean’s really screwed it this time...completely fucked everything in the world up...there’s no way Sam’s sticking around now...will probably never see him again…  
  
Then...then Sam’s kissing him. All teeth and tongue and he tastes copper - either his or Sam’s blood, it’s impossible to tell - and his breath hitches, trying to get his thoughts back into action and figure out just  _what the fuck is going on_.  
  
But that’s not happening.  
  
Dean kicks at the blankets, his leg sliding between Sam’s, and Sam gives out a deep sigh, loud between their lips and being swallowed by Dean just as quickly as it comes out.  
  
 _This_ is happening.  
  
At some point, Sam gets his hands onto both of Dean’s hips, rolling him over and pinning him to the bed. He deepens the kiss and any hope Dean had of wrangling his thoughts, on deciding just what the _fuck_ he’s doing, is gone when Sam slides a hand under the elastic of Dean’s boxers and cups his cock.  
  
 _So they’re doing this_. That thought manages to break through.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says when he manages it through the break of mouths. “ _Sam_.”  
  
Sam moves away, just enough so that they can see each other. He’s panting and Dean can still feel -  _taste_ \- Sam’s breath in his mouth.  
  
“What?” Sam rasps.  
  
Sam’s still got a hand on his cock, not moving, just  _there_. The heat, just  _there_. Dean tries to stifle a groan, but Sam’s and twists his wrist, and this time Dean makes a strangled sound between lips that he’s trying to keep clamped together. He forgets whatever he was going to say.  
  
Sam dips down and presses their foreheads together, warm breath now against the whole of Dean’s face. Sam’s hand is still moving, running along the length of Dean’s cock, and instinct tells Dean that he should be  _doing_ something, but he stupidly just finds himself lying there, staring at Sam, and being totally aware of his fast, hitched breaths that are filling the room.  
  
Sam shifts against Dean’s leg, and Dean suddenly becomes aware of just how hard Sam is against hm. That triggers something, gets his instincts moving, but instead of yelling “ _stop, what the fuck is wrong with you?”_ , it brings his hand down to slide past Sam’s pants, swiping his open palm against the head of Sam’s cock and bringing out a gasp from his brother, Sam’s wrist falling slack.  
  
“Fuck—” he hisses out. “Fuck—”  
  
It doesn’t take much more time at all, a few more strokes, and Sam lets out a choked sound against Dean’s neck as he comes. “Dean,” he’s whispering, “Dean.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean tells him and then, for no reason at all, he adds, “I’m here.”  
  
The hand he doesn’t still have shoved down Sam’s pants moves to cup his face, bringing it up so they can kiss again. Focusing at first on his mouth, Sam completely pliable under him now, opening his mouth so Dean can slide his tongue in and taste wherever he can reach. That’s what matters now, just holding onto Sam.  
  
Sam starts moving his hand over Dean’s cock again, and it’s only one, two strokes before he falls apart, slumping forward onto Sam’s body and trying to catch all the breath he’s lost, trying to just regain where he is and what’s happening.  
  
It’s too warm, he knows that first before anything, and he still can’t find that breath trapped in his lungs, it’s only coming out in short little gasps as his face rests in the crook of Sam’s neck. Then there’s Sam’s little kisses, dropping wet patches over his cheek and down his shoulder. Part of Dean wants to push him away because there’s something so not right about that --  
  
 _(there’s something so not right about jerking off your brother either)_  
  
\-- but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother moving. He just stays there, drowned in Sam, and tries not to focus on how messed up their lives have become.  
  
Sam’s staying now. That’s the important part.

::  
  
When Dean opens his eyes the next morning, he can remember everything. That’s something (a gift? A curse? He’s not sure anymore) that comes with living a life on the road, moving from motel room to motel room and needing to be always at the ready, always prepared to attack.  
  
He rolls over and splays out his arm, fully expecting to connect with Sam. He still remembers last night, full and vivid in his mind, and he’s got no idea what he’s about to do with that, but Sam should be here - and he’s not.  
  
Dean sits up and scans the room, his eyes settling on Sam immediately as he watches his brother walk around the room, rolling a shirt in his hands and putting it into his backpack.  
  
“What are you doing?” Dean asks, his voice cracking with sleep. He tries to clear it.  
  
Sam practically spins to look at him, his face some strange shade of white and his eyes flickering around everywhere that isn’t Dean.  
  
“Are you…?” Dean clears his throat again. “Are you packing?”  
  
Sam’s eyes still avoid him, moving to glare at the ground now. His fingers clench on the backpack’s strap.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
He looks up, but stares at the wall behind Dean’s head. “Yeah. I told you. I’m going today.”  
  
“But…” Dean throws back the sheets, walking until he’s less than a foot away from Sam. Part of him wants to reach out, but his hand wavers, dropping back to rest at his side. “What about after…?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. He’s still not looking Dean in the eye. “I told you yesterday. I’m going.”  
  
“But that was before…”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Sam glares at Dean, his look so intense that Dean almost takes a step backward, almost moves away from his brother. “I’m going,” Sam says, lethal. “Today.  _Now_.”  
  
As if to prove his point, Sam starts moving again. Over to the bed now, where he picks up Dean’s jacket. He starts to fold in the sleeves.  
  
“Hey, Sammy, wait --” The look Sam gives him makes him almost regret opening his mouth. “Uh--that’s my jacket.”  
  
Sam looks down and stares at it for a long moment. He lets it drop back down to the bed, but not before Dean’s reached out and placed a hand over his brother’s arm.  
  
“You don’t have to go,” he says, trying to keep his voice quiet. “Not yet at least.” He hopes Sam will never have to leave, but stepping stones…  
  
Sam’s free arm reaches up, his hand moving to sit at the nape of Dean’s neck. Only then does he fully turn, and Dean can see that his eyes are back to being filled with terror.  
  
“I gotta go,” Sam say, his voice lined with cracks. “I gotta be  _normal_ , gotta stop being the  _freak_.”  
  
“You  _are_ normal.”  
  
So much for last night’s conversation about wanting Sam to go away, about wanting to  _convince_ him to go off to college. Dean’s weak-willed and he knows it, his whole mind and body hanging together with thin threads named ‘Sam’ and ‘Dad’. Now one’s about to snap, and Dean doesn’t know if the solo string is going to be enough to keep him upright.  
  
“I’m not normal,” Sam mumbles.  
  
Dean’s hand slides up Sam’s arm, stopping only when it reaches his shoulder. He squeezes gently and Sam moves forward, close enough that the lump in Dean’s throat dissolves and he doesn’t feel so afraid anymore.  
  
The kiss that Sam gives lets Dean breathe again, raspy into Sam’s open mouth. He needs more, feels as though he’ll always need more now, and he’s not gonna get it.  _Last time... last time..._  
  
He forces Sam to walk backwards until they’re pressed up against the wall. It shakes with the force and parts of the already destroyed, striped wallpaper flake off even more, tangling in Sam’s hair. Dean’s fingers join the pieces, twisting and curling as he kisses Sam harder,  _harder_ , trying to map it all out, to remember when Sam’s not here…  
  
Sam moans into his mouth, and that tears something right through Dean as he molds himself further into Sam’s body. He tries so hard just to hold on, trying to tell Sam that he  _is_ normal (irony of what they’re doing lost), that he  _can_ stay, that Dean will  _always_ chose Sam over anyone.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says. He’s pulling away and Dean tries to hold on, his hands gripping into the soft fabric of Sam’s t-shirt.  _Not yet, not yet_...  _not ever_. He’s not letting Sam go, no way. He doesn’t care how pathetic he’s being.  
  
“Stay,” Dean pants, and tries to find Sam’s mouth again. All he manages is a collision at the side of Sam’s lips.  
  
Sam shakes his head, keeps shaking his head, until Dean’s forced to give up. He just twists the shirt tighter in his fingers, he just holds on.  
  
“I need to go,” Sam whispers. “Let me.”  
  
And Dean was the one who was supposed to tell him to stay, supposed to be the one to guide his brother. He’s messed that up. He’s messed that up in a way he can never go back and change, not now. Not now.  
  
He’s forced to bite down on his lip and nod, refusing to let himself tear up or let his voice crack. This is all his fault. “I wanna drive you.”  
  
::  
  
He drives Sam to California on a day when there is no rain.  
  
It takes them twelve hours with no stops, because Sam doesn’t want them and Dean’s too tired to protest. The traffic is thin and Sam knows short-cuts, he points them out every chance he gets.  
  
Dean couldn’t think of anything to say the entire time, and later he’ll hate himself for this. He rakes his brain over what that key phrase could be to keep Sam around, and finally settles on something only after they’ve pulled up a street over from the college. Dean can see its sign.  
  
“Stay,” he says, and his voice shakes.  
  
Sam crumples before his eyes, his face falling and Dean watches his neck work, Adam’s apple bobbing as Sam swallows over and over.  
  
“Go,” he says, and his voice shakes harder.  
  
He can’t read Sam.  
  
Dean digs into his pocket, into the same jeans he’s been wearing for two days straight. He passes over the feeling of glossy paper, one last photo Sam insisted on taking before they left the motel. It’ll be creased and ruined by now, but that doesn’t matter. The money he won is still there as well, and he forces it into Sam’s hand, curling his brothers fingers into the palm so the bills stay there.  
  
“Take it,” Dean says. “Buy a car in need of TLC or something. Bring her to me to fix up.”  
  
He thinks Sam might be crying, but he’s turned away and Dean can’t see his face. That doesn’t really matter, not anymore. He just reaches out and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, resting his mouth at the curve of Sam’s neck and breathing in.  
  
Sam leaves without turning back, just a body walking into the distance with a backpack thrown over his shoulders. Eighteen years of life. Dean keeps staring long after Sam rounds a corner and disappears from sight, his hand clenched on the steering wheel and teeth gritted together.  
  
So that’s it. He’ll have to go back to Dad, he’ll have to face him. Dean will have to tell Dad he failed at the one task he really dedicated himself to.  
  
He turns the key, and his baby’s engine roars to life. Maybe he’ll find another hunt first. There has to be ghosts in California.


End file.
